


Friendship And Other F-Words

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Good Omens Movie Script (1992) - Fandom
Genre: A Character is Coerced Into Having Sex in a Body Shape That They're Not Comfortable With, Anal Sex, Anal to Vaginal Sex, Aziraphale Whump (Good Omens), Blow Jobs, Comeplay, Creampie, Degrading Dirty Talk, Double Penetration, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Extremely Dubious Consent, First Time, Good Omens Movie Script (1992), Jealousy, M/M, Miscommunication, Object Insertion, Other, Predicament Exhibitionism, Rape/Non-con Elements, Semi-Public Sex, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:53:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22822087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: This is a fill for a prompt on the kink meme requesting Movie!Crowley taking advantage of Movie!Aziraphale’s desire to be friends with him.Knowing that Aziraphale would never turn him down, Crowley fucks him regularly throughout history. He's awful to the angel, but Aziraphale puts up with it, both craving any kind of contact with Crowley - even like this - and fearing that if he refuses him, Crowley will have enough of him and ditch him for good.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 88
Collections: Anonymous, Good Omens Kink Meme Anonymous





	Friendship And Other F-Words

**Author's Note:**

> [Here is a link to the prompt on the kink meme, much of which I repurposed for this fic’s summary.](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/3161.html?thread=1884761#cmt1884761)
> 
> Script!Crowley seems to be wildly delusional about himself and his relationships at various parts of the script, and sometimes his motivations seem to change from one line to another. I ran with that, so the unreliable narrator tag is used here because some of his perceptions or assessments are… let’s say questionable.
> 
> I want to give readers a very clear picture of what kind of consent issues they can expect in my fic, so I think I’ve fit everything else that might need to be explicitly warned for into the tags but I couldn’t find a more concise way of saying that, as an example of what you’ll find here, in the first scene one character is put in a position where they’re unable to verbally revoke consent and any protest that could be read into their body language isn’t read by the PoV character who continues with what they’re doing. If that’s the kind of fiction you’re looking for, I hope you’ll enjoy this.

The angel is following him again.

Crowley gets it, he does; he's the most interesting thing on this little mudball – it's no wonder the angel's obsessed with him.

"Same assignment again?" The angel approaches, wringing his hands nervously. It makes Crowley want to shove him; how has he survived this long while being so publicly vulnerable? It's not an act, he's had more than enough time to figure that out.

"Mmm," he hums with as little acknowledgment as he can.

"I'm mostly on observation at the moment. You?"

"Hmm." He's barely even looked at the angel, and still Aziraphale steps closer.

"How are you finding it so far?"

"What?"

Aziraphale gestures at the humans assembled to listen to a speech by some hairless ape who'll be dead inside of a century and whose words will misquoted and misquoted again so that even those who bother to remember him won't really know what they're remembering. It's pointless. Being here, watching them, influencing what he can, it's all pointless.

"Rubbish." He turns and starts walking away. The reports he sends down probably aren't even being read. They'd have realized he was meant for better things by now if they were paying any attention.

The angel follows him, some dedication to duty there.

"Have dinner with me," Aziraphale throws out from nowhere.

"What?" It's so shocking that he does actually stop. The angel almost bumps into him.

"Dinner. With me."

"Why on Earth would I want that?"

The angel exhales violently, it's more a gasp – closer to a sob – than a sigh. "Because I want you to. Don't you- You're like me. I know you are. You can't quite fit in, so they assigned you here. Where, where you don't fit in in other ways-"

"But they don't have to see you?" Crowley cuts in. "Sorry, you're projecting. I promise you, angel, everyone downstairs loves watching me stand out." He half-turns away, dismissing the angel in a way even he should be able to pick up on. "If you're here because no one wants to spend time with you, do something to make yourself more appealing. Not my problem."

"What would make you want to spend time with me?"

Crowley laughs, and almost says "Nothing," but realises as he opens his mouth that he needs something far more effective than that to chase the pest off. He can get some entertainment out of this. 

'Kill someone to prove you're worth my time' has some charm, but it's too extreme; Aziraphale wouldn't take the request seriously. Maybe he can get him to break something, have the angel sabotage some of the farming equipment, or the mill, and laugh as he shows him how the resultant hunger makes the humans miserable. He should get him to do something degrading, embarrass himself. But 'sing a little song, make up a dance for it' would probably be worse torture to observe than to perform. And it's doable; it's pretty clear the angel wouldn't have survived this long as he is if he found embarrassment unbearable. What he needs is something he'll reject doing out of hand but can still be convinced Crowley is serious about. Something the angel will resent him for enough to bugger off. It takes him only a moment of consideration to come up with the most brilliant idea. 

"There are very few things you could do that would make someone want to keep you around. I'd bet you wouldn't even try them if I told you."

"I would."

It hits Crowley that there's something unusually despondent in his tone and the slump of his shoulders. He wonders idly what happened, but asking would only encourage the angel. Has he come to Crowley for comfort? It's so sad it's almost amusing.

Crowley's laugh is unpleasant and short. If he's cruel and crude enough, even the angel will leave him be. "Really? If I told you that the only way you could get someone to put up with you is if they knew they could bend you over and fuck your hole whenever they got sick of your face, you'd let them? The only way you're going to find anyone willing to listen to you blather on is if you'll let them shut you up with their cock. Are you going to get on your knees and suck mine?"

The angel stares at him for several seconds, expression moving from emotion to emotion and back again. The only one Crowley bothers to acknowledge is offence. Good, he got what he wanted. He's happy about this, he reminds himself and turns away as hurt dominates the angel's face again.

"I don't know how." 

"Of course you don't. I'm the only one with enough patience to offer you the chance. That's why you're here, isn't it?"

"Teach me then."

That shocks him enough to look back at the angel. He's serious.

"Teach you?"

"Show me how to... to give you what you need."

He's struck dumb for a moment. He's backed himself into a corner with this, hasn't he?

But no, no, he's worked himself into an opportunity. If he can get an angel to suck his cock, that has to be grounds for a promotion. 

He miracles a nearby home open. It isn't his own, but no one's going to be any the wiser.

"Follow me," he says. 

He doesn't bother looking for anything more comfortable than a chair. He sits and spreads his legs, and Aziraphale dithers. 

"Are you really going to back out now?"

"No, I, um, oh, knees."

Aziraphale lowers himself in front of Crowley. Then he just kneels there, staring.

"You could at least act enthusiastic," Crowley finds himself saying. It's a strange thought; he's not sure why he had it. 

"It's nice to feel wanted." He decides to follow it up with, "Not that you'd know."

Aziraphale ducks his head slightly, looking up at him through pale eyelashes. "I do want your company. I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

That's fine, he supposes.

He heaves a put upon sigh and pulls his robe up.

Aziraphale touches his leg, rather than his penis. Has he never even watched the humans? They're not always shy about this sort of thing. During some of the festivals they'll do it in the streets.

The angel procrastinates, moving his hand slowly up Crowley's thigh, but eventually he reaches it and wraps that hand around his cock. He fondles Crowley, at first exploratory and then deciding to rub him back and forth along the shaft. Crowley doesn't object.

"Isn't it supposed to, umm," Aziraphale starts to ask. He's been getting increasingly distressed at Crowley's lack of response; he's not on the verge of panic yet, but he knows he's failing and not why. It's delicious. 

"It is, but it only responds when-" he stops, tries to pretend he's trying to be kind. "It's- you're not very. Oh, go on, use your mouth. I'll close my eyes and try to imagine someone- well, if you try harder I'm sure you'll improve."

Aziraphale breathes deep, visibly steels himself, and leans forward to take Crowley's penis into his mouth.

Crowley looks down at him, and even like this he can admit that he likes it. Enough teasing though. He makes some slight changes to his corporeal form, connects nerve endings, opens pathways for neurotransmitters, and suddenly he more than likes it.

Aziraphale makes a surprised sound as he swells in his mouth. Satan this is good, amazing even. He hears his own moan, and feels Aziraphale try to pull off, probably to ask if he's alright. He grabs the angel by the hair and pushes him back down. Aziraphale's spit is rolling down him, over his bollocks. It should be disgusting but all he wants is more.

"Don't stop now. You're finally doing it right."

Aziraphale struggles for a moment under his hands, so Crowley pushes deeper, forces himself to the back of Aziraphale's throat. The angel gags, but he's not stupid about it; rather than trying to close his jaw he opens it wider.

"Yes, like that." They're good at this. He has wasted years not having the angel wrapped around him.

Aziraphale gags again when he pulls out and thrusts back into him. It feels amazing, but he knows what gagging can lead to in bodies like these. He's kind enough to offer fair warning, "If you puke on me, I will piss in you."

Aziraphale makes a noise around him, trying to say something. It makes his tongue twist wonderfully. He tries again; it would be annoying if Crowley cared about whatever the angel thought he needed to say.

"Use your tongue. You don't need to keep making noises."

The angel grunts, but he curls his tongue against Crowley. It's probably better when he's moving it, but Crowley is so focussed on the sensation of the tip of his cock forcing its way into that throat that he doesn't care.

Every time he slams back in Aziraphale gives a little grunt at the intrusion. He can feel it directly, Aziraphale's throat convulsing around him. Even the brush of teeth when Crowley jostles him too fiercely isn't enough to distract him from the pleasure.

He presses in, almost lost to it, so deep that Aziraphale's chin presses almost too firmly against his bollocks.

He looks down again. Aziraphale's eyes are closed. Every part of his face is leaking. The angel is disgusting, and he did this to him.

Crowley clenches his hands in Aziraphale's hair, pushes in as far as he possibly can, and releases down the back of Aziraphale's throat.

Time seems to stop for a moment, everything too bright, too sudden and present, but then he's relaxed, every part of him going limp.

His grip loosens, and he doesn't resist as Aziraphale pulls back. His hands slide slowly from the angel's hair, falling uselessly by his thighs. It takes everything he has to not slide off the chair.

The angel coughs, then coughs again and again. He brings a hand up to his mouth, another to his throat.

"Did you like that?" Crowley hears himself ask.

"Did you?" Aziraphale croaks. 

Crowley feels cold suddenly, aware of the spit and other fluids drying on his skin in the cool air. With a snap of his fingers he's dry and unruffled. Calm and cool as he looks at the angel on the floor at his feet.

Crowley didn't need an answer. Aziraphale liked it. He'd never admit it aloud, but that's simply who – what – he is. He'd been so eager to do it once Crowley gave him the barest excuse. That mouth was made to suck cock. Aziraphale loved it, not that Crowley particularly cares.

"You did well enough, eventually. I'm impressed actually. It turns out you're finally a natural at something." He gives Aziraphale an encouraging little smile, the angel never seems to pick up on what's underneath it.

"I'm-" the angel starts, then in an almost unprecedented show of self-awareness appears to decide that the rest of his statement isn't worth voicing. He breathes for a moment.

"Can we," Aziraphale coughs, "dinner now?"

"After that?"

The angel coughs again and releases his throat. Then he gives a quick, loud little exhale and he too is composed.

"I don't see why not." The angel's voice is no longer raw. "Traditional, isn't it?"

"Sure." Crowley's just earned himself a promotion, he deserves a celebratory dinner. "Lead the way."

* * *

The response to his report is less than ideal. In short, they think he's lying.

He receives a response to this one at least, so apparently there is someone down there literate enough to look them over.

The missive he receives back from hell is unnecessarily long and laden with expletives, but the gist of it boils down to: 

_What in our Lord's name do you think you're playing at? Did you expect us to believe that tripe? Have you forgotten that we've met you? Your inept fabrications might impress the humans you encounter, but lies have to be good to get you any credit with us. If you ever waste our time such a demonstrably false report again, you'll be lucky if you get the chance to submit the next one without thumbs._

It's what he should have expected. He's done something so astounding, so unprecedented, that they can't conceive of it as real.

He resents the lack of well-deserved acknowledgment for his deeds, but what doesn't he resent? It's not a total loss. Helping Aziraphale improve his skills really has made spending time with the opposition far more bearable.

Aziraphale had been babbling on about humanity's innate goodness being proven by the way they've stopped being quite so into the whole blood sacrifices to occult gods thing. How it reflects that all they need is a guiding hand, or something stupid like that. – He's going to have to start a cult soon, something really vile, oodles of blood on dark altars. See how Aziraphale feels about guiding hands then. It's work, that's all.

Trying to explain humanity's failings to an angel is like trying to teach a sheep about the importance of property law – it's a waste of effort, you can't make it see the world accurately, at the end of the day all it'll do is bleat at you.

He'd taken the angel back to the place he calls home for now, won another board game for all that the angel seems obsessed with them, and told him to go strip and lie on the bed.

He'd been irritated earlier, listening to Aziraphale speechify, but this soothes him. The angel is so much less of a chore to bear when he's following directions.

"Spread your legs," he commands, and Aziraphale does.

He considers what else he could tell Aziraphale to do. He's found his mind wandering to thoughts of telling the angel to pleasure himself while Crowley watches. He might do it some time, just to watch Aziraphale squirm with embarrassment under his gaze and see how deeply he can blush. Every time they make it to a bed though – or a table, or chair, or quiet alleyway – he finds that the most pressing issue is getting his own cock touched.

"You look better like this," he says, throwing his own clothing aside and climbing on the bed behind Aziraphale. He places a palm on Aziraphale's lower back and presses down. "This is where you belong." The angel would probably do far better for heaven if he distracted Crowley in bed all day, none of that unnecessary encouraging humans in their petty lives, wasted effort on a self-interested species that will do what it wants, with or without either of them.

"Oh," Aziraphale gasps. It's one of his better sounds.

He doesn't really want to talk. He moves his hand down, over the swell of Aziraphale's arse, and digs his fingers into the flesh.

Aziraphale gasps again, but doesn't speak.

"On your knees," he says, "up," and releases Aziraphale with a light slap that makes his flesh jiggle.

The angel lifts himself awkwardly, but finds an adequate enough position, arse high and knees spread.

"Give me your hand."

"Which?"

"Doesn't matter."

Aziraphale shifts a bit more and reaches his right hand out behind his back. He almost unbalances – if Crowley gave him a little shove he could topple him right over, but that's not what he wants right now.

Crowley conjures a handful of oil and pours it onto Aziraphale's unsteady palm. It spills as he guides the angel's hand to the cleft of his own arse and presses two of Aziraphale's fingers against his hole. 

"Open yourself."

"Oh," Aziraphale says again, sounding unsure this time, but more oil slides down his wrist than Crowley had put in his palm and he moves his hand to spread the oil where he needs it.

Crowley makes another palm of oil for himself and rubs it in along his shaft. It takes no time at all to get hard; he could spend from this alone. But he has plans. 

He hears Aziraphale grunt as he presses a slick finger inside himself. The angel stops moving for a moment. Crowley is not inclined to take this slow; he already feels an almost overwhelming sense of urgency. He warns Aziraphale not to take his time, and Aziraphale knows him well enough by now to take him seriously. 

He's patient enough for Aziraphale to get the tips of two fingers inside himself before he pulls him away by his slick wrist. Aziraphale protests, but not strenuously. 

Crowley puts his hands on Aziraphale's hips, sliding along his skin until he manages to get a decent grip despite the oil. Then he discovers that he needs to take his more slippery hand away again to position his cock perfectly against that hole.

He feels Aziraphale shift again, bracing himself steadily on the bed, and starts to push in.

Aziraphale whines, long and unpleasantly high when he starts to slide in. He's not even a third of the way sheathed when he has to pull his hand away again.

"Be quiet," he says, slapping Aziraphale's arse again for emphasis. Aziraphale jumps and clenches around him and grunts at the impact, but he stops whining. 

"That was a terrible noise."

Aziraphale doesn't apologise, but Crowley didn't really expect better of him.

He's just far enough in that he doesn't need his hand to guide their flesh together anymore. He grips Aziraphale's hips and pulls him back as he pushes forward.

It's almost too much. Aziraphale's tight and so very hot around him. He wants to draw this pleasure out, but not this time. This time he just aches for completion.

Aziraphale's head is hanging low; he's letting out short, wet gasps under Crowley. Moreover he's moving, body taking to this penetration like a natural. Crowley feels him shifting, wriggling back and forth. Crowley meets the angel's movements with his own, pulling out just a bit before pushing all the way back in. He feels lightheaded. He feels that clench shifting around him as he drives as deeply into Aziraphale as he can go.

"Please," Aziraphale breaks, begs for it. "Please, please just- please."

And then he's pulsing, filling Aziraphale. That familiar brightness filling him, leaving him lax.

He collapses on top of Aziraphale, leaving the angel to wriggle until his deflating penis slides loose and slips out.

He can feel it as Aziraphale's breathing evens out under him. He waits for the angel to push him off, push him away, but Aziraphale doesn't do that. Doesn't even have the wherewithal to tell Crowley off for crushing him.

He feels as much as hears Aziraphale snap his fingers, a polite warning for a miracle used on another, and the oil and sweat and whatever else they're covered with disappears.

The angel wriggles some more and brings a hand up around the back of Crowley's own where it's lying over him.

"Thank you," Aziraphale says softly.

As he should. It's only right he's grateful for Crowley's attentions.

"Ah, it's alright." Crowley offers generously, "You did, uh, you did pretty well."

"I think I'll be better next time."

"Good."

The angel squeezes at his hand. "I understand what you can't, what can't be said. I know you're a demon and can't- I don't mind. I wanted to say I'm glad I can-" he squeezes Crowley's hand again. "I'm glad we're friends."

"Right," Crowley says.

After a moment in which it's clear he's supposed to say more, he adds, "Me too." It's not quite a question, though it has something of the lilt of one to it. If he doesn't say something like that the angel will sulk, and he doesn't want to deal with that. 

He disentangles their hands and moves away. 

The angel doesn't follow.

* * *

The only thing worse than being stuck on a horrible mudball of a planet spinning aimlessly in space is being stuck on a boat on a horrible mudball of a planet spinning aimlessly in space.

The company is shit.

The angel is there, which is kind of alright, but Columbus is a piece of work and his men range from insipid to imbecilic.

Aziraphale agrees with him about Columbus, but he won't say so. He just makes a face and goes on about the wonderful human drive for discovery, 'You wouldn't understand, demon,' whenever the topic comes up, like humans seeking knowledge is suddenly a good thing.

His options on this forsaken ship have been to learn seafaring from the humans, fraternize with the angel, or go entirely mad from isolation. His angel has never been so well socialized. 

And yet, Aziraphale remains insatiable. He is constantly seeking Crowley out for conversation, or to play a game, or just to "share a moment of calm" away from the stench and chatter of the sailors.

And he doesn't only seek out Crowley. He's caught him speaking to the helmsman and sharing a crust of hardtack with the boatswain as though he thinks they might be inclined to push him down to his knees and give him the treatment he so clearly longs for. 

Crowley catches Aziraphale standing at the bow in the sunlight, smiling at some deckhand like he farts French perfume. And that sort of thing will be fine when Crowley finally has his promotion and has moved on to better and brighter things, but right now he's right here! If Aziraphale wants attention, he shouldn't be seeking it from anyone but Crowley.

Crowley interrupts. It is his prerogative. He snaps his fingers and the human wanders off, forgetting about his conversation with Aziraphale.

"Really my dear, what was that about?" The angel knows he's been caught doing something wrong, he sounds so flustered.

"Trying to make friends?" Crowley asks. Despite the inflection, it's not really a question. Aziraphale picks up on that; his brow furrows.

"What?"

"You're not subtle, you know. I've seen the way you look at these men. You're an absolute whore of an angel."

"What?!" Aziraphale asks again, voice higher, tone scandalized. 

"You've always been this way, haven't you? This is why they didn't want you in heaven. You follow people around, hound them, try to make them 'spend time' with you all because you want to be bent over by anyone who'll have you."

"I, what?" Aziraphale asks more softly. He steps back, closer to the railing.

Crowley reaches out for him, and Aziraphale doesn't pull away as Crowley's fingers start unlacing his breeches.

"Wait," he says though, "here?" Aziraphale looks around as though expecting someone to object. His ability to be oblivious astounds; no one has noticed anything they've said or done since Crowley sent the deckhand away.

"Here. They can't see us, unless I decide to drop the miracle." He smiles at Aziraphale, "You might want to reinforce it." He pushes Aziraphale's breeches down, pushes at him until he turns around, then shoves him against the deck railing. "Or not, knowing you. Do you think they'd start thinking of you this way if they saw you bent over, speared on my cock? That's what you want from them, isn't it now?"

"I don't- Why are you saying that?" He does sound almost hurt, like he thinks he should be able to look at any passing sailor, begging with his eyes to be pushed down on the deck and rut into, and not have anyone comment on it.

"I've seen the way you stare at them. Are you so oblivious you can't tell they're not interested?"

He can spot the moment Aziraphale realizes that he's going to push inside without preparation. The angel tenses, then relaxes again, suddenly slick and open. So used to – so ready and wanting – this that he's overtly inviting Crowley to use him.

Crowley slides in with a groan. That familiar pleasure his. This place, all of Aziraphale's body, his to do with what he likes.

"If you're not satisfied with this, I can make sure you get more."

Aziraphale grunts as Crowley manhandles him, pulling his clothing up to bare his chest, using his other hand to push Aziraphale's breeches farther down. 

Crowley pulls out and thrusts back in. It's almost more obscene than stripping the angel completely. If he does drop the miracle, and he might, he thinks, the sailors will see Aziraphale as good as nude, immobilized by his own clothing, with Crowley unlaced only as much as he needs to be to press his penis into that warm, welcoming, wanton flesh.

"I could curse them to like you. Is that what you want? Ask me nicely. None of them would ever want you if they had a choice, but I can make them line up for this." He hits Aziraphale again, open palm on the side of his arse, hard enough to leave a mark.

The angel yelps. "No! No, I don't want them. Only you. Only you can do this."

His next blow is lighter, it makes a sound but hardly qualifies as a slap.

"You are unbelievably lucky to have me. That I'll have you. What would you be doing right now without me?"

He runs a hand soothingly over the marks he's left.

"You'd have been up and down creation trying to seduce anyone who'd look at you twice, wondering why none of them would have you."

He pulls Aziraphale tight against him and whispers close to his ear, "But I'm here with you. I give you what you need. You love this, don't you?"

"What are you trying to get me to say?"

There's a moment Crowley can sense when something's hanging on a knife's edge. He's unsure, though he doesn't know of what. 

He'd know if it mattered.

"Tell me how much you love being used."

"I love that you use me," Aziraphale says, voice breaking before he even makes it halfway through the statement. 

"You do," Crowley confirms. He pushes him hard back down against the railing and thrusts through his orgasm.

He needs a moment afterward, holding himself up on Aziraphale's body when his legs try to give out.

It was a messy orgasm, coating him and sliding out of Aziraphale's hole even after he's pulled out.

He keeps a hand on Aziraphale's back, pressing him down as he lifts the other to catch a line of it sliding over the angel's skin. It's not a particularly appealing substance, once everything's said and done, but it's his.

He runs a slick finger above the mark his slaps have left, writing something idly, slowly enough that the semen has dried before he can finish.

He pulls away leans back against the railing beside Aziraphale. When the angel moves to straighten he pushes him down again, palm heavy on the warm skin of his back.

He could do it, drop the miracle now, see whether Aziraphale has reinforced it with a strong enough one of his own. Let the men see what they've been up to, see Aziraphale bent and used and dripping with him.

Aziraphale would be embarrassed, probably try to wipe all of their memories of it, but he'd forgive Crowley. He doesn't have any other options.

The angel makes an inquiring noise.

"Are you satiated now? Or are you going to keep at them. I could make them line up for this, one after the other." He curls his fingers on Aziraphale's back, scratching, not hard enough to do any real damage. "It would be a lot of work. I wouldn't let it stop until you'd taken them all."

"I'd rather not." Aziraphale twists his head to look over at him, wide-eyed innocence as more semen dribbles down his thigh. "I rather like that only you've seen me like this."

If the angel were capable of anything but cloying earnestness, he'd think he's being manipulated.

No, the angel has learned his lesson.

"Fine."

He moves behind Aziraphale, pulls the angel's shirt down and subtly wipes his own cock clean on it as he adjusts it to lie comfortably. He puts himself to rights then pulls the angel's breeches back up over semen that neither of them has miracled away.

Aziraphale straightens only when Crowley guides him to, and watches uselessly as Crowley laces up and knots his breeches with something so complicated they'll likely need a miracle to get them undone again.

Aziraphale inhales like he's about to say something, but Crowley gives him a look that makes him think better of it. The angel turns to look over the water.

"Sometimes I forget how beautiful it is," the angel mumbles, possibly to himself. Crowley decides he's not going to bother answering either way.

"Then I really look at how the waves roll in the glint of the sun and I'm stunned by it. They, the humans, see this expanse and they think they know it, but they've hardly discovered a fraction of what it contains. I've been here so long and I still don't understand it myself, but I don't need to to know it's-"

"If you say 'another perfect part of creation', I'll throw you overboard."

"Right." The angel falls silent.

Crowley stands by his side there at the railing and stares out at the merciless ocean.

* * *

Aziraphale isn't at his normal haunt when Crowley seeks him out, which is weird because Crowley knows full well the angel doesn't have a life outside of him.

Curious about what he's up to, Crowley follows the trail of his opposition on Earth until it leads him to the doors of a club so exclusive that he has to affect the minds of five different men just to get all the way inside without being forcibly ejected at any part of the proceedings.

He's done well to do it though; Aziraphale is most definitely playing at something. The angel is stationed at the edge of a bannister, drink in hand, leaning close to a human male with a smile that can only be called conspiratorial.

The angel leans in even closer and says something, and the human says something back, and the angel giggles. 

Aziraphale looks surprised at himself, and even more shocked when Crowley swoops in.

"What's happening here?" Crowley asks.

The human looks between them. "We've been discussing recently passed laws. Nothing terribly scandalous, I'm sorry to say."

"I'm sure you have been."

The human, who has some survival instinct, nods to him, gives a short bow to Aziraphale, and buggers off.

"I am pleased to see you, but I was in the middle of an assignment just now." Even now the angel lets his eyes follow the line of the human's back. "That poor young fellow is about to have the weight of the world on his shoulders."

"Didn't think you'd be the first in line to advise anyone on weight."

Aziraphale purses his lips and twists his glass around in his hands. 

"Have you been assigned to see to someone similar here? Surely your people haven't set you on him."

"It doesn't matter why I'm here. I asked you first."

"I said: I'm on an assignment."

Crowley inclines his head to Aziraphale. It's usually so difficult to get him to stop nattering on, but then there'll be something maybe worth hearing and he clams right up, needs to be coaxed into it.

"Tell me about it." Crowley takes the drink out of Aziraphale's hands and swallows most of what's left. He'll need to be significantly drunker than this can get him if Aziraphale decides details and backstory are relevant to the no doubt incredibly simple answer Crowley wants. He swallows the rest and sends the glass somewhere else with a thought.

Aziraphale huffs at him but nods after the man who'd just left. "He's only just settled into his new position and I'm meant to inspire him to support this new law. That's all."

"And of all the places you could have met with him, you chose to approach him here?"

"It's a club," Aziraphale insists, as if Crowley is being the unreasonable one. "He's relaxed here."

Crowley laughs, remembering just at the last moment to make their discussion unnoticeable. His voice rings out, but not one of the humans turns to see what the commotion is. "I'm sure you wanted to help with that."

"Yes," Aziraphale says in the tone of a man who suspects he's walking into a trap, but is too bloody stupid to see any other course of action. "This is what heaven told me to do."

Crowley collapses onto a nearby sofa and runs his hands over his face.

"This is why none of them like you, you know."

The "What?" that escapes Aziraphale's mouth is small and light, and he would almost feel bad for having to explain if Aziraphale weren't forcing it out of him.

"All of this, angel, you're so bad at it. It's no wonder heaven doesn't want you around. You're like gum in the works."

"Oh." He used to ask things like 'What have I done then?' when Crowley spoke to him like this. Now he only asks, "What should I do?"

"Why should I tell you?" Crowley asks as he pulls Aziraphale down by the wrist to sit beside him. "You're the competition. What would I get out of helping heaven?"

"Whatever you want, as usual." Aziraphale at least has enough wherewithal to sound resigned at the prospect.

"I never get what I want," Crowley grumbles. Everything is always held just out of his reach. That's the cosmic joke, why he's on this stunted little planet.

"Ah," he hears, and when Crowley looks back to him the angel is staring off into space and fiddling with his hands.

"That is incredibly annoying," Crowley reminds him and reaches out to still the angel's hands. He pulls away before Aziraphale can do something awkward like try to entwine their fingers together.

"Look, because we're friends. Did you not notice how he ran off the moment I gave him an excuse? You were coming on too strong. You can be cloying. It puts people off." The angel is looking down at his now still hands. He's entirely immobile. It's boring. 

Oh, this would be hilarious, "Really, you'd do better to walk up to him and tell him in no uncertain terms that anyone who doesn't support your law is a simpleton."

Aziraphale offers up a soft noise that's probably agreement. 

"And now, since we're friends, what are you going to do for me?"

He spreads his legs, a clear invitation that even Aziraphale, for all his obliviousness, ought to be able to pick up on.

"Alright. Give me a moment to finish with him first though."

Crowley is offering himself up, and all the angel has eyes for is that blessed human, standing there like a fool, waiting to be chatted up by the next desperate beast to step into the room.

It's rude. That's what it is. Aziraphale should be honoured Crowley is wasting his time with him. He's been complacent. He's let the angel get self-confident, so confident he thinks he can turn Crowley down and have him just as patient and willing whenever Aziraphale feels like he's ready.

"What?" He asks. It is not in the tone the angel usually uses.

"Later, I'll do anything you want of me, but I really do need to complete my assignment. Give me two minutes to finish speaking to him, at least I'll be able to report that I've tried."

"Later?"

"Please, Crowley, this is what they've told me to do." 

"Did they tell you how?"

"I have guidelines."

"Did they tell you to come here? Did you tell them what goes on in these places?"

Aziraphale inhales, getting a stubborn look on his face, and Crowley knows that the answer to both of those questions is 'no'.

"Do you think they'd approve if they knew you were trying to get close to him at the sort of club where this," Crowley surges toward him, thrusting his hand down the side of Aziraphale's suddenly undone trousers to grab at his arse and hip and pull him closer, "is so commonplace that if I let them see it," he speaks over Aziraphale's scandalized squeal of his name and juts his chin at the various men spread out over the room, "the only part they'd find surprising is that I'm willing to do it with you?"

"Or do you think," he pulls Aziraphale even closer, twisting his hand to push his trousers lower, "they'd laugh at you for trying it? What would they think of you if they understood what it meant when you approached him here?"

"It's not like that," Aziraphale protests, but his squirming bares more of his bottom to the room and that really doesn't support his argument.

"Nothing worse than they already do," Crowley answers himself. "Isn't that right?"

He pinches, and Aziraphale shrieks in his ear, jolting up and losing any hint of modesty, almost throwing himself over Crowley.

"That hurt," he reprimands, moving his hand up to rub at his ear.

"It did," the angel agrees readily. He kneels over Crowley, ungainly, trying to pull his clothes back up before Crowley grabs his wrists.

"No. Take them off."

Aziraphale blushes, which is pleasing enough, but says, "I really do need to-"

"This is the third time tonight you've refused me. I'll leave if you really mean it, but I thought we were friends."

Crowley turns his face pointedly toward the man Aziraphale had been focussed on. "If you want to spend your time with him, I'll go." He turns back to Aziraphale, "But I don't know when you'll see me again. Certainly not for our weekly meeting."

"That's not what I want."

"Undress." 

Aziraphale pauses and sighs, but he closes his eyes and pushes his trousers down his thighs.

"Everything."

Aziraphale moves quickly, efficiently. The product of millennia of awareness that dithering will only result in ripped clothes and other discomforts.

"Did you really think you could seduce him?" Crowley asks when Aziraphale is bared before him.

"No," Aziraphale hesitates for a moment before plopping back down beside him, "and I never intended to, I swear to you." 

"Are you saying I'm wrong then?"

Aziraphale speaks slowly, for once choosing his words carefully. "You're a demon, and I know that makes you expect ill intent." Though clearly not too carefully. "I, however, am an angel, and if I could do half of what you've accused me of over the years, I wouldn't."

Of course the angel would say that. Crowley's not sure whether it's that Aziraphale doesn't really know himself, or if he's willfully refusing to acknowledge his true nature. Crowley doesn't care enough to have been able to work out a firm conclusion. 

The angel wants to be liked. He wants connection, and he's not particularly choosy about where he finds it.

He's seen the angel make thousands of overtures over the years. Wanting to talk, wanting to get to know the humans, thinking their work is beautiful and wanting to understand the people who created it. If anything, he's only been more desperate about it since Crowley had him on his knees and gave him what he really wanted out of all of it.

Sometimes it's offensive, but mostly it's just sad. He's not good with people. He never has been and never will be, and he can't seem to accept it. He tries with the humans over and over again, but they can sense something wrong with him. Crowley often gets to see it; he's lost count of how many people he's watched back away from the angel like today's young man had. He tries and he fails and he gets clingier with Crowley, even though he knows Crowley hates that. 

The angel wants so much, and it's unfair of him to lean on Crowley to give him all of it when he fails to find what he needs in others.

But Crowley is a very good friend.

"I think you actually believe that," Crowley tells him. "But I know you better. I know how much you like to make yourself useful."

The angel leans away from him and says his name.

"I know what you're like when given an excuse."

The angel closes his eyes and sighs and says, "I know you better than you think too."

Crowley almost laughs. "Do you know what I want?"

"Sometimes I let myself think I do."

"What do I want?"

The angel opens his mouth, closes it, repeats the process, then sighs and says, "You want me to show you how much I want you."

That's not right. Being wanted by Aziraphale isn't even on Crowley's list of dearest desires. But he's going to get some enjoyment out of it if he lets the angel continue to think as he does, so he doesn't correct him.

The angel leans down, carefully opening Crowley's trousers and pulling out his penis. He wets his lips before dropping a kiss to Crowley's still soft shaft. He knows how much he can apologise for by taking Crowley in his mouth.

But Aziraphale has offended Crowley rather terribly more than once tonight. That isn't going to cut it anymore. He ought to know better.

"Not tonight."

Aziraphale freezes and turns to look up at him, not moving far from his penis. 

"Not either of the holes you usually have tonight. Won't you change for me?"

Aziraphale breathes on him while he tries to come up with an answer that clearly isn't "'Yes, of course.'"

"It always takes some time to adjust to the change, you know how I get. I'm sure I can do more for you like this."

"Didn't you want to prove how much you want me?" Crowley asks. His tone is mocking, but that's always wasted on Aziraphale. "Or did you not really mean that? If I'm asking too much of you, maybe your dear assignment-" 

"You don't have to be this way," Aziraphale cuts him off. The statement's dripping with condescension, even if the angel's trying to conceal it with a high and hurt tone. 'Don't have to,' like he's trying to be understanding of a failure. Furious heat fills him.

"Like Eve," he commands. "Change your body like Eve's, now, or I'll turn and leave and you won't see me for centuries." 

Aziraphale sits up. He turns slightly away from Crowley. He curls into himself, but he changes.

Aziraphale's always more tense in this form. He holds himself as though his entire body is smaller, or as though he wants it to be. He looks at people less, avoiding staring even Crowley in the face.

Aziraphale crosses his arms over his chest, as if he could press the mounds that are just as plump as the rest of him back into his body.

"Shh, show me." Crowley tugs Aziraphale's arms away from his chest, baring him to the room.

"You might want to keep up the miracle making sure no one notices this," he warns. "You're so rarely like this, I want all my focus on you."

Aziraphale's eyes are closed, but he nods enough to let Crowley know he heard.

He pulls Aziraphale's legs apart, tilting the angel's hips for an unobstructed view. He'll touch soon enough, but he rather likes posing the angel like this.

"Do you think he'd still want to share a drink with you if he saw you displayed like this?"

Aziraphale slams his legs together and looks at Crowley with wide, watery-eyed betrayal.

"No," Crowley tells him, "Part of what they don't like about you, and there's a lot, but part of it is how desperately easy you make it to get inside of you."

Aziraphale shudders and closes his eyes again.

"But that's okay. You have me. I don't mind it."

Just to the side of the sofa there is what Crowley had considered an impractically low table. He realises that it's likely meant for incidents just like this. This really is the most obscene of this sort of club.

"Like you said, I'm a demon. Maybe that's what twisted me enough to let a wanton thing like you touch me."

He stands. When Aziraphale doesn't follow him up he demands that the angel stand as well.

Aziraphale pushes himself up, body unbalanced by the changes.

"On the table. On your back."

If Crowley kneels and spreads his knees just a bit, he'll be at the perfect height to penetrate someone lying there.

Aziraphale almost falls as he bends over to sit on the table. It takes him a moment to figure out which direction he's supposed to lie in, as though Crowley might have wanted half his back hanging over the edge, but he manages it eventually. Crowley has to push his legs apart and pull him down the table once he's settled between them, but Aziraphale takes it with nothing more than a grunt.

He likes sliding against Aziraphale in this form, pressing his penis against the length of Aziraphale's entrance and feeling the plump flesh part around him. One of them will usually use a miracle to help Aziraphale slick; his body rarely produces enough of it when left to its own devices.

He doesn't bother this time. He wants it dry and tight.

He slides against him once, and then again, and then reaches down to adjust the angle. Aziraphale doesn't pick up on what he's doing, so he doesn't relax enough when Crowley slams into him.

It is tight, painfully so even for Crowley, and Aziraphale's shout is distracting enough on its own. He almost entirely drops the miracle, though Aziraphale must have taken up some of the slack as no one notices him laid out and spread wide on the table. Crowley picks it up again. As much as he'd love to see Aziraphale curl into himself as all eyes fell upon him, it would be more trouble than it's worth. 

He's not nearly ready to stop taking his pleasure.

"Pay attention!" he snaps. "Relax."

Aziraphale giggles wetly. He doesn't speak, but he breathes and Crowley feels the muscles around him shift like they're at least trying to be less vise-like.

He sticks to shallow thrusts. This can feel so good when Aziraphale puts more effort into it, but he seems determined to be difficult tonight. 

Crowley adjusts Aziraphale's arms around his breasts to best display them. Caught in a tighter hold, with Aziraphale's arms clasped beneath them, they move delightfully with each thrust. 

He lengthens his movements; the slide is smoother now, if not much. It's not easy to move quickly, but he does it for the grunts Aziraphale releases every time he pushes to his depth briskly enough. The angel's still keeping his eyes closed. Maybe he's wishing they really were being watched.

"Look at me," Crowley demands.

Aziraphale shifts his head to the side but, after a moment short enough that Crowley can't build up too much irritation, soon turns it back to face him. The angel opens his eyes and looks up at him.

He winces alongside every grunt, but his pupils are wide and dark.

There's something off in his gaze, something obstructing the way he usually looks at Crowley.

"Look at them," he says instead. It must take Aziraphale a second to understand the request, but eventually he looks out at the room. He gives a little jolt, as though he'd forgotten they weren't alone, and tenses again. That look on his face as he remembers the men around him, that's what Crowley had needed.

He spills as deep inside of Aziraphale as he can fit himself. He stays in place until he's completely spent, using the shortest movements he can to drag the pleasure of his orgasm out. There's something about this form that makes him want to trap his semen inside Aziraphale. Nothing could take – this isn't how angels and demons are produced – but the body seems to come with certain instincts. It's not logical, but what about any of this is? Maybe it's just that he wants to leave his mark in a place he so rarely has access to. 

He rests his weight against Aziraphale as he waits to soften and pull out. He does appreciate the sensation of the breasts under him. It makes Aziraphale a more comfortable pillow than usual.

He has a handful of seconds of relaxation before he can feel Aziraphale trying to force him out.

The lesson he was trying to teach clearly hasn't stuck.

"We're not done," he says. He hates doing it because it always ruins the sensation of having just orgasmed and the second is never as good, but he miracles himself back into arousal. 

Aziraphale makes a shocked noise and looks at him in surprise. 

"Lying on your back not looking at the person who's fucking you is not an effective way of showing someone how much you want them." He licks and then lightly nips at a breast, just below its nipple. "I'm offering you a second chance."

"I did everything you said. What more do you want?" Aziraphale asks in that annoyingly flat voice he often takes to in this body. 

Crowley shifts his hips, careful to remain inside the angel. "You make me come up with everything myself," he complains, but he's up to the task.

Aziraphale is too tight for comfort; he wants him to loosen for this round. If Aziraphale were so inclined, he could adjust himself with a miracle. If he doesn't want to, Crowley can think up a solution.

He doesn't know where his walking stick got to, but he's able to summon it with a thought.

It's visibly expensive, well shined with a round grip at the top in the shape of a serpent curled into a ball. It's big enough for his purposes but not large enough to stretch the palm – the detailing wouldn't be as impressive if it weren't somewhat delicate. 

Aziraphale looks at him like he thinks Crowley is about to start beating him with it.

Crowley pulls out.

Aziraphale doesn't seem to figure out what's happening until Crowley's pressing the silver serpent against him. He whines, but he shifts his hips and he takes it. He's already done more to accept the walking stick into him than he had Crowley.

Crowley entertains himself for a brief period by shifting the stick deeper into Aziraphale, seeing how far he can go before he meets too much resistance or Aziraphale feels the stretch is uncomfortable enough to risk drawing back. He finds a rhythm that Aziraphale doesn't seem to mind too much, never drawing the head out and pushing slightly deeper on each instroke, but this doesn't really do anything for him.

He presses the stick deeper inside Aziraphale and stands. He could use Aziraphale's breasts now – he should just for the rarity of the opportunity – but he much prefers that with Aziraphale leaning over him than with Aziraphale on his back.

He considers, and of course the sofas would put them at the right height.

He leans down again to extract his stick. He's not completely certain, but he thinks Aziraphale may have been more wet for it than he was for him. He grits his teeth and orders Aziraphale to stand. After a moment, the angel does.

He takes him by the arm and pulls him over to another sofa, one without a table by it. The seats nearer the centre of the room are all taken, but he could still listen in to half a dozen conversations from here.

He pushes Aziraphale over the sofa, intending to leave him standing but balanced over the back. Instead the angel collapses onto the furniture, kneeling on it with his arse jutting out. He can work with that, if it's what the angel needs. He guides him up to lean far enough over the back that his breasts hang over the edge. He guides Aziraphale to pull his knees apart with a gentle hand on his thigh. The angel follows his direction instantly. 

He slaps his arse very lightly just to hear the surprised shriek, then slowly – he would say gently – fits the head of the walking stick back inside him. He has to pull Aziraphale's knees farther apart to get it deep enough that it should stay inside him with the other end balanced on the floor.

"I want you loose, but not so slack you can't hold on to something that big. Do you understand?"

Aziraphale nods, though he still doesn't speak. Crowley moves around the sofa to stand in front of him.

The angel is still nodding. He's closed his eyes again and kept them that way.

The angel came here because he wanted to get fucked in front of all these men, and now that Crowley's obliging he's suddenly bashful.

Crowley grabs his jaw, startling him into looking up at him, and leans down to whisper, "If you can't keep it inside you, I can pierce your skin and sew you shut around it."

"I'll keep it in," Aziraphale says, speaking like there's already something in his throat.

Crowley stands back again. Aziraphale keeps his eyes on him this time.

"I want to fuck your breasts."

Aziraphale arches his back agreeably enough and frames them with his arms again.

When Crowley doesn't come closer, Aziraphale reaches out for him. That is better.

Aziraphale's breasts are as soft as ever when Crowley pushes between them. This isn't the best angle for this though. Crowley has to work at chasing his pleasure more than he'd like to, and there's only so much the angel can do to help while maintaining the limits of his position.

It's still a good sensation, but it's not what it should be. The angel isn't doing anything right today. His whole face is tense, and his eyes seem caught in a perpetual wince. 

Asking him to concentrate on this while having to hold the stick steady inside him and keep up support of the miracle is clearly beyond the angel.

He wonders whether, if he kept him at it for long enough, the angel would let the stick slide out of him or drop the miracle first.

Crowley steps back. Aziraphale throws an arm out to catch his balance, grunting and wobbling dangerously. The furniture is sturdy though.

"You can do better," Crowley tells him. 

"I-" the angel starts with a worried look, but Crowley doesn't need to hear what he has to say.

"Use your mouth then."

The angel adjusts his position immediately, relaxing the line of his back and carefully redistributing his weight on the sofa.

This is the act the furniture's height was meant for.

Aziraphale reaches out to guide him, wrapping a hand around him that promises the familiar touches he has come to have some skill in. After everything else tonight though, Crowley is certain Aziraphale can find some way to fumble even this.

No, he lets Aziraphale guide him into his mouth, then pulls the angel's hand away and thrusts deep.

Aziraphale has become better over the years at controlling his tendency to gag, but he still hasn't eliminated it. No matter how roughly he moves Aziraphale's head though, he very rarely feels teeth these days.

Aziraphale still doesn't control how much saliva he drips down Crowley's shaft, but that's fine, at least this hole wants to make him slick.

"I should let them see you like this," he says. "Maybe some of them would want you if they saw how deep you can take it."

Aziraphale makes a noise around him that Crowley soothes with a touch to his hair. He all but melts at that, like he always does.

Crowley doesn't want to leave his release in Aziraphale's throat today though, not when that other option has been made available. 

He pulls out and moves around the sofa as Aziraphale coughs. 

The stick is still inside him, deeper, Crowley thinks, than he left it.

He guides Aziraphale's arse up with a gentle hand, twisting the stick as he pulls it out. Aziraphale gasps and sighs and lowers his head to rest it on the back of the sofa.

Crowley presses in as swiftly as he had the first time, ignoring the whine Aziraphale muffles in the upholstery. It's an easier slide now.

Almost too easy, seeing how slick he is.

It's not unpleasant, but he wants for something else. He thrusts for a bit to enjoy how Aziraphale takes it, but there's no sense wasting this slick.

He pulls out, and Aziraphale, the filthy, wanton creature, whines again at the loss of him.

The angel looks back. "Why?" he asks as Crowley picks his stick up again and works it back into him.

If he can't ask full questions, he doesn't deserve full answers.

"Because."

Aziraphale exhales, looks forward again, and braces himself on the sofa.

The slick is not enough to make the slide into Aziraphale's rear hole easy, but it's more than they've used plenty of other times.

Aziraphale grunts as he enters, but after a moment to catch his breath he starts meeting Crowley's thrusts.

It's when Crowley jostles the stick with his own movement that he realises the strange sensation he's been feeling is the bulge of it buried in Aziraphale alongside him.

That's pleasant, or the realisation makes it so. The angel is his; the angel's body is his to empty or fill or rearrange at his pleasure, and he is making full use of it.

"Are you full enough now?" He asks. "Are you satisfied or do you still want more?"

The angel makes a wailing noise, sealing his mouth to the padded back of the sofa.

Crowley draws it out of him again and again when he reaches down to move the stick slightly out of tandem with his own thrusts.

He can feel what he's doing through Aziraphale's flesh. He can feel the pleasure of it.

He's never been one to hold back from the edge. He could certainly orgasm like this, and if he's not careful he might, but he wants, still, to spend in the depths he only gets to enter when Aziraphale's in this form.

He pulls out entirely and aligns himself to enter the already occupied hole.

"Please," Aziraphale shrieks as he starts to force his way in. "It's too much. I can't take you with it, not like that!"

Crowley suspects Aziraphale is being dramatic. Bodies like Eve's are built to pass entire babies through their channels – he should be able to stretch enough for this.

Crowley tells him as much.

"It's not the same. I'm not used to this body. I'm not ready for it. Please. Please! I'll do my best to please you any other way."

Crowley presses in the merest bit deeper.

"It's too big. I can't take you with it."

He could simply push himself in. Maybe Aziraphale's telling the truth and he wouldn't be able to make it past the head of his stick, but surely he could just push that in as far as it needs to go to make room for him.

The angel is being dramatic. It's not even a particularly cruel contemplation. Any damage he does to Aziraphale's body can be undone with a snap of his fingers.

"Please! You'll tear me! Please don't!"

Aziraphale really does sound desperate. He's working himself up over nothing, but Crowley's used to that by now. It's part of what makes the angel so annoying. Crowley does indulge him though.

"I can use the other end if you prefer," he offers. "Can't promise it's clean."

"Please just take it out. I want you, just you. Let me feel you, please, nothing else. I only want you."

Crowley can understand that. For all that Aziraphale's body loves being spread, it's connection he's really searching for. Only Crowley himself can offer him that.

"You are so fortunate you have such an indulgent friend," he tells Aziraphale, who sobs in relief. 

The "I am, I am," is rather gratifying, but he needs to cut it off before it becomes overplayed. 

There's not enough of him in the angel for what he does to qualify as pulling out, but he does it nonetheless and draws the stick out after him. It's in a truly disgusting state, so he miracles that clean and sets it aside.

He stands behind Aziraphale and pulls him to his feet, pushing him over only so far that he can lean his hands on the back of the sofa. Then he slides back inside.

The slide in is so easy. It's not surprising; Aziraphale's body always yields a welcome eventually, even when it's out of practice. He spends so much time trying to pull people in that even his flesh has taken to it.

He'd deny it, but this part of him is no less needy than the rest and will cling desperately to anything that enters his clutches.

"You needed this." He slides his hands around the body in front of him to grope at Aziraphale's breasts. 

Aziraphale makes a noise of agreement as he squeezes. Aziraphale generally tries to shy away from having them touched, at least by hand, but he clearly knows better than to say no again tonight.

He's never gentle in his kneading, but Aziraphale isn't even making his usual piously scandalized noises.

"Tell me you want this." He emphasises the demand with a particularly harsh squeeze and a thrust hard enough to almost unbalance Aziraphale.

"I do. I want you with me. And I'm grateful. I am. Thank you. I- This is enough. This is perfect. All I want inside of me is you."

"You don't want any of them?" He draws his nails over Aziraphale's breasts. He doesn't press hard enough to break the skin bloody, but Aziraphale has begged for mercy from nothing more than this before.

"None of them. I couldn't."

"That's true enough." He moves one of his hands to Aziraphale's hip to hold him steady as he thrusts more ferociously and the other to Aziraphale's short, pale hair, gripping it and pulling his head up, forcing him to take in the room. "You couldn't, but if they'd have you, you would, wouldn't you?"

The angel doesn't nod. He doesn't shake his head. He just says, as clearly as he can through the jostling of Crowley's thrusts, "You're the only one who's been here as long as I have. You're going to stay longer than any of them would. You're the one I need. I'd do- Your friendship is more important than any of theirs could be."

Crowley almost lets himself be placated. He's not soft though; he's not a fool. And he still remembers how they ended up like this in the first place.

"I'm sincerely surprised that you don't want to be seen like this. Have you told the other angels you have a friend? I wouldn't think they'd believe you. At least if these men saw me inside you, you could get someone to believe you've found a companion willing bear your presence."

"I don't care what anyone else thinks." The angel's closing back in on his prim tone. It's a lie he's told often enough to convince himself he believes it. Everyone cares about what everyone else thinks; lacking favour, well, if people don't form the right opinions about you, you get as good as banished. 

"I think you do."

He lets the miracle drop. There's a fraction of a second during which heads start to turn, but whatever Aziraphale had done to bolster it maintains well enough to keep the humans from really noticing what's happening in front of them. Aziraphale tenses around him exquisitely and the men lose any awareness of their presence. 

"If I told you to let them see us, if I told you I'd leave and not speak to you for decades if you kept them from noticing this any longer, would you do it?"

Aziraphale quakes under him in full-body shivers. He answers in an unsteady, unusually high voice, "If you told me that, I would."

Crowley leans his mouth close to Aziraphale's ear to say, "But I never would. I don't want them to look at me and wonder what's so wrong with me that I'd bother with you."

He lets go of Aziraphale's hair and lets him lower his head. The angel takes deep, shuddering breaths.

He keeps quivering, and that's actually very pleasing. His breaths come shorter and closer together, harsh enough that every one shakes his entire body.

Aziraphale keeps shaking and clenching around him until Crowley's body gives up its release. 

He buries himself deep again, pressing Aziraphale's face into the back of the sofa because he wasn't holding on well enough to support them.

He slips out before Aziraphale can do much in the way of movement, and pulls a handkerchief out from his pocket. He folds it and presses it gently to the wet cleft that Aziraphale now appears in no hurry to hide from the unseeing eyes around the room.

He cleans the slick from Aziraphale's folds then folds the fabric again and presses it just barely into the hole. It's a plug, a stopper. Aziraphale is ever expelling fluids from his body after they do this, and he fancies the idea of the one he just left there staying inside. 

"Come on," he says, and pulls the useless creature around to sit properly. "We're done here, get dressed."

Aziraphale looks at him, almost as though he's confused as to why they've stopped.

His eyes have been running since he choked on Crowley's cock. They're noticeably red-rimmed now. 

"Here, clean yourself up." Crowley conjures another handkerchief and hands it over, because he has to do everything around here. He miracles himself clean, tucks his penis back into his trousers, and transports Aziraphale's clothes with a thought from the first sofa to the one they've relocated to.

"I..." Aziraphale trails off and bring his free hand down between his legs. He then looks in confusion at the handkerchief in his other hand, as though the concept of there being two separate pieces of cloth is beyond him.

"Mmm, leave that one where I put it. I'll check on it tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"We still haven't played checkers this week. Come over to mine tomorrow."

"Yes." Aziraphale's lips curve up as he stares at the fabric in his hand. His voice steadies. "Let's meet tomorrow."

"Don't change it. I mean it." He wants to glide back inside that slick hole tomorrow. He wants to know that Aziraphale spent every hour from now until then in this shape only because Crowley had told him to.

Aziraphale's smile dims. "I won't be able to button my shirt if I stay like this. I won't be able to do anything like this."

"Change the top if you want," Crowley compromises, "but keep this for me." He reaches over and presses his fingers against Aziraphale's entrance to ensure the cloth is still tucked securely where he left it.

Aziraphale concentrates for a moment, and though nothing changes under Crowley's hand, his chest returns to its usual shape.

"For you." Aziraphale nods. He only fidgets with his hands for a moment before catching himself. 

Crowley pulls away and gestures to the pile of clothes. There's nothing else of particular interest in the club, so he watches while the angel covers himself in layer after layer.

"It looks like your assignment's already busy." The young man Aziraphale had been talking to is now deep in discussion with another, their heads close and voices low enough that Crowley wouldn't be able to eavesdrop on their discussion from this distance with human hearing.

"Are you going to come back later and try again?" He doesn't put any warning in his tone; the angel wouldn't pick up on it anyway. 

Aziraphale looks at him for a long moment. "No, I don't think I'll be coming back here again."

The angel gazes over at the man and heaves a massive and overdramatic sigh. "Maybe I did say enough. He seemed inclined in the right direction on his own anyway.

Aziraphale turns back to him. "Crowley, I want to say, that is," Aziraphale closes his eyes and nods to himself before opening them and his mouth again. "If I had some warning for, for these games, I could prepare. I'd be better at it if I knew what to expect."

The angel says some of the strangest things sometimes.

"When we meet up tomorrow, we can play checkers or whatever you want. You're not bad at it, angel, I'm just very, very good. No one's going to get one over me."

The angel furrows his brow for a moment. "I know what you are. I don't expect you to go against your nature. Even so," he cuts himself off with a sigh, shakes his head. "I have faith. I expect tomorrow will go better."

"That's the spirit." Crowley stands, already bored of this place and only half listening. "I want a drink, something better than what they're serving here. Are you coming?"

"Oh, um, yes!" Aziraphale's acceptance comes in pleased gasps and he follows – too close really, but Crowley has already spent enough time correcting his behaviour today – at Crowley's heels when he leaves.

* * *

He is fucked. Six thousand years assigned to serve on the most insipid orb in the galaxy, and soon he's going to find himself stuck somewhere even worse. He has less than one percent – far, far less – of his total time here left to figure out a solution, to find the child and try to set everything – well, wrong, but wrong in the right way for him.

The angel isn't even trying to help anymore. Instead he's reached out and grabbed Crowley's hand, and the only reason Crowley hasn't thrown him off is that it's literally the least of his problems and once he deals with it he'll be left with nothing but staring into his pit of hopeless despair.

"We will find the boy," the angel is saying, because he's the sort that says nonsense aloud until it sounds true. "You need a break. If we have a short rest, we might see something we've missed when we come back to this."

The angel takes Crowley's ignoring him as license to take more liberties and brings in his other hand to fully encase Crowley's.

"If you think these are our last years together, I don't want to waste them."

"That's new. Everything we've ever done has been a waste of time." He only has to look around Aziraphale's office to see it; the room is littered with mementos of the pointless time they've spent on this dying planet in each other's company. Here a picture of them observing an event they didn't need to be there for when they were also instructed to non-interference. There a knickknack from a time when the extent of their interference was to convince a hairless ape to do something it probably would have done anyway. They haven't exactly been writing their names in the stars.

The angel squeezes his hand lightly. "Let me make you happy."

"You'd need a lot of luck for that," Crowley scoffs.

"You often remind me how fortune favours me," the angel comments lightly. He releases Crowley's hand and slides off of his chair to kneel between Crowley's sprawled legs.

"May I?" He asks, and Crowley decides to let him. At least he gets some pleasure out of indulging the angel's fancies like this. 

Within a moment his black trousers are folded on the angel's vacated chair. 

Aziraphale moves his hands slowly up Crowley's thighs, pressing lightly until Crowley moves them slightly farther apart. He runs a thumb along the crease where Crowley's leg joins his body, and lowers his other hand to cup Crowley's testicles. 

He always draws it out when given the chance. He loves doing this, Crowley understands, and wants to prolong the contact Crowley offers him for as long as possible. 

Aziraphale looks up at him as he takes him in hand and strokes, keeps glancing up as he lays open-mouthed kisses along his shaft.

"I'll miss this," Crowley says, not sure where the thought came from. It's probably true though. A thousand years alone in the deepest pit as nothing but an object lesson to anyone else who might think about making a single, unfortunate mistake, and he'll probably be desperate enough that he'd seek even Aziraphale's company out.

Aziraphale smiles up at him before taking him in his mouth, rolling his tongue in one of the ways he knows Crowley likes.

Aziraphale pulls off and presses a kiss to his thigh before diving back in. "You won't have to. We can solve this together."

Crowley doesn't bother fighting him on it. He sighs and tries to relax. The sensations aren't unenjoyable. 

After a moment Aziraphale pulls off again and takes to mouthing at his bollocks while he strokes the shaft. He shifts a bit more to give Aziraphale better access.

Looking down at Aziraphale, face partially obscured by the dick he's pumping while his mouth works lower, Crowley wonders whether any other demon has found an angel they could use this way. Surely not. In all this time, surely he's the only one brilliant enough to have taken an opportunity like this. 

Surely it should count for something. 

But the others have never met Aziraphale. They mustn't, or they'd know how easy he is. But since they haven't, they haven't believed Crowley when he's bragged about it – and fucking an angel, even if it's Aziraphale, is something to brag about. Surely a deed of such magnificence should earn him some clemency. 

Aziraphale draws his dick into his mouth again, relaxing his throat and taking it deeper.

He gazes up at Crowley, looking so content around his cock that no one would doubt he was made for this.

There are ways these days to prove things that were lacking in the past.

"We should record this. Make our own little movie." Crowley waves a hand down at Aziraphale to make his point clear.

Aziraphale's brow furrows as he carefully withdraws. "I, I'm not sure."

Spoilsport.

"No, come on. We could watch it afterward, together."

Aziraphale pumps his hand along his length, looking for a moment as though he's actually considering it. "I think I'd spend too much time glancing over at the... recording device. I wouldn't be able to stop thinking about it."

"Heh, it was an idea." It's a good point. Aziraphale undoubtedly would be self-conscious enough to ruin it. Maybe he can hide a camera somewhere, record it without Aziraphale knowing. It's something to keep in mind.

It's an option, or it might be. He's clever, he thinks of things.

He feels a little more of the tension drain out of his body as Aziraphale takes him back into the warm, wet heat of his mouth. 

The familiar pressure of orgasm builds, and he nearly screams his annoyance when Aziraphale pulls off to ask "On me or in me?" The angel has no initiative.

"Swallow me," he says, and before he can grab Aziraphale and pull him back where he wants him, Aziraphale has taken him to the root, cradling his bollocks and caressing his hip.

Aziraphale sucks and pets him through his release. He cleans Crowley of the aftermath and lays another gentle kiss on his length as it softens.

"Do you feel any better?" The angel asks.

He supposes he does. Even after the world fades to something less overwhelming, the relaxation that follows release stays with him.

"Mmm, yes, a bit." He rolls his shoulders, which he can actually do now without feeling like the weight on them is going to crush him, and miracles himself fully dressed.

"I'm glad. You needed the distraction." Aziraphale runs his hands over Crowley's clothed thighs again before letting contact drop away.

"You are very distracting," Crowley tells him.

He'd thought of it as a neutral statement, maybe even a bit of an insult, but his words make Aziraphale smile so widely that Crowley almost finds himself caught up in the wave of his happiness.

He feels his lips twisting to mimic the expression on his angel's face.

Aziraphale beams at him until he has to look away.

**Author's Note:**

> That's all, folks. About 13000 words and Crowley never even made a grab for a clit or a dick. It'll have to remain a mystery whether Aziraphale ever got off because worst!Crowley's POV and worst!Crowley dgaf. Poor Aziraphale, as I thought many, many times while writing this.


End file.
